


Or On It

by Dryad



Series: Night Moves [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence of War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 09:23:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9601133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: Only the Dead have seen the end of war~ Plato





	

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place some 20 years after [Night Moves.](http://archiveofourown.org/series/125607) You don't have to read Night Moves to read this story.

The building was like all the others on the street; a Georgian row house, white, with wide windows, a black door with a brass knocker, a brass wall panel with entry buttons. He pressed the relevant button and was buzzed through a moment later. Inside, a small sign on the wall clearly indicated which direction he was to go in, so he went down the hall, turned left and went down the stairs. Another small sign declared the space beyond as Willow Studios, with a note to _come on in_.

With only a bit of roiling in his gut, he turned the knob.

Inside, the hall was surprisingly bright, painted a shade lighter than magnolia, with tiny spotlights highlighting framed black and white photographs of people he didn't recognize on the walls. The door at the end of the hallway opened and a young man holding a clipboard smiled at him. He had luscious dark blonde hair falling in waves about his shoulders, large, pale blue eyes, and wore a black button-down shirt and trousers with black leather biker boots, well scuffed. 

"Mr. Hennessy?" The man held out his hand as he approached. "Thank you so much for coming, today. Your input is invaluable to the film. My name is Ivan and I'll be your assistant this morning."

Ivan's hand was warm, his palm dry and his grip firm without trying to out-squeeze Hennessy. Hennessy hated that. Hated shaking hands with people he didn't know. "It's no problem. Glad I can help."

"Would you like a coffee or anything? It's pretty miserable out there," Ivan said over his shoulder as he turned around.

"Tea would be good," he answered, following Ivan down the hallway. They entered a small foyer with a door on the left, and another on the right, which they took. There was a short hallway which opened to an open plan galley kitchen cum living room. More overly large black and white portraiture on the walls, like something out of a fancy home makeover show. Two women sat on a cream colored sofa pushed against the far wall. In front of them was a low, blonde wood coffee table with a glass vase containing a single saffron colored marigold. Side tables had a selection of well-thumbed magazines, while the back of the room had a load of lighting equipment, a folding long table, and a couple of laptop computers. One of the women seated on a couch glanced up and smiled ever so slightly, while the other was engrossed in filling out a form.

"Would you like milk or lemon?" asked Ivan, shaking the kettle a little.

Hennessy shrugged. 

"Probably wisest. We're not here every day and things don't get used up as quickly as they should." Ivan refilled the kettle and hit the button for it to start. He pulled a cup from the cupboard and peered into it, then added a tea bag from the box of Typhoo on the counter. "Miss Kumar's upstairs at the moment, but should be down shortly. I hope you don't mind, but we're running slow today, and Mrs. McKinnon came a little early."

"It's not a problem," answered Hennessy, because really, what else was he going to do with his day?

While he waited for his tea, Ivan handed him the clipboard and had him fill out the requisite paperwork; name, address, contact details. Permissions to quote him in any publicity, or use his profile. Hennessy wasn't too keen on that and crossed it out. Appearing in a documentary film was one thing, having his face splashed about the dvd box entirely another. By the time he was done with it all, the tea was ready, and before he had more than a few sips he was hustled over to the well lit corner of the studio he had spied earlier. 

Next to the sofa was a large picture window overlooking the back garden, where a healthy Plane tree waved in green splendor. Here were two chairs facing one another in the corner between the sofa and the window. Standard interview poses, familiar from what he'd seen on the tv over the years. Two cameras on tripods completed the little ensemble. He took the seat next to the window, gulped down the remainder of his tea, setting the cup on the floor, just out of kicking distance. He wasn't normally prone to making sudden movements any more, but it would ruin the moment if he was triggered and sent porcelain flying across the room by mistake. The light behind the interviewer's chair was bright, so much so he had to squint in order to see Miss Kumar as she sat down.

"Ivan?" she called, uncapping her pen and maybe looking Hennessy's way. "Could you - yeah, thanks."

A second later Hennessy straightened in relief, Ivan adjusting the light to a softer standard.

Miss Kumar glanced up at him from the clipboard. "All right, okay...Mr. Hennessy, please do tell me if any point you wish to stop filming. I know dredging up these kinds of memories can be traumatic in and of themselves - "

"I'll be fine," he said, hoping for the best.

"Right, well. If you're ready?"

All at once, Hennessy relaxed. He leaned back in the chair, fell into a seated pose of attention with his hands on his thighs, feet solidly on the floor, legs spread just enough. Ivan muttered something to Miss Kumar, who nodded, glancing at her notes. She then looked up at Hennessy with a smile and raised eyebrows. _All set?_

He gave a short nod back, and they began.

"Tell me a little about your background."

"Nothing special, really. I grew up on a council estate, got O levels in Geography and Maths, didn't fancy going on to university, but didn't fancy getting a job, either. Messed around a bit as most kids do, got into a little trouble. Went into the recruiter's office on a dare, signed up the next day. Usual story."

"Any brothers or sisters"

"One of each. Older sister and younger brother."

"And your parents?"

"Mum died when I was eleven, Dad remarried a month later. That's when it all began," he said, but even as he forced a chuckle he had to acknowledge to himself he was only speaking the truth. Vanessa hadn't liked him, still didn't. Thought he was a fuck-up and a waste of space. Worst part was that she never said anything like that in front of anyone, so he never had any proof.

"Did your father approve of you going into the Army?"

Hennessy shrugged. "Didn't care, so long as trouble stopped coming to his door."

"Did you enjoy your Army training?"

"Oh yeah," he said enthusiastically. "Great fun, great fun. You do stuff with your mates. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's serious, dead serious, but there's a lot of fun, too."

"We're all used to seeing images of Afghanistan in the news; it's hot, dry, dusty, very brown and sere. What are we missing?"

Hennessy twitched one shoulder. "Not much. What you can't understand are the sounds and the smells. If you're in the country there's not much music apart from what we bring. The call to prayer, gunshots, motorcycle engines, goats and dogs. Don't get me wrong, there's a lot of agriculture, varies from region to region. You can go into a valley as green as anything, filled with fruit trees and grape vines, wheat fields, opium poppies, apricots, melons, and the next thing you know you're in a dry gully surrounded by the driest desert you can imagine." 

"Did you eat a lot of the local food?"

"Sure, when we got the chance. You might get tired of goat or mutton, but it's good stuff. Tasty. Better than MREs"

"And the people, what are they like? I mean, there were people out to kill you, obviously, but what about those who just wanted to go about their business? Were there people like that?"

"Yeah...but you didn't necessarily know who they were. People who would happily chat to you in winter were also happily shooting at you in summer, their kids would shoot at you, throw rocks at your vehicle, climb aboard and rip things off the back. You can't trust anyone over there," he said, shrugging. "That's just the way it is."

"Of course," she said softly. "When did you first realize this?"

"After the first skirmish. Teenager taking pot-shots at us from an upper storey window. Kid had been selling us sweets the day before," It had been hard on them all, once they realized who the dead boy had been.

"Tell me about your platoon."

"A good bunch of lads, the best. Khan wanted to be a cop, thought seeing action first would give him all the skills he needed for Birmingham's mean streets. Flannery and Grambs were just kids, straight out of school. Both were Irish, y'know? Hard boys, bound to be great men when they got back home. Grambs was third generation Army, which as you can imagine didn't make him popular back in Belfast. Hodge was a school teacher looking for something different, Groban wanted some excitement and Lockhart was trying to make a better life for himself, y'know? Even Dietrich, our tech, wanted the experience."

"And yourself?"

"Me?" For a moment Hennessy didn't know what she meant. He wasn't interesting at all. "I'm like Grambs, my family's been in the military for generations, not that you'd know if by my Dad. He's a pacifist, if that means nobody uses their fists. Kill and be killed, that's all we really know how to do," he joked. Except it was actually the truth. If he were to go home right now, his dad would roll out the paperwork that traced their ancestry back to the Domesday Book and they could count all the men who had died in the wars home and abroad since, and then tell him in the next breath that war was for fools and idiots and welcome home, son.

"What's war like?"

Words were a poor way to explain the scene, Hennessy decided. He closed his eyes, trying to come up with the best words. "You ever seen one of those movies, like _Three Kings_ or _Black Hawk Down_ , I used to watch all of that before I joined the Army. You hear the crack of gunshot, the whine of bullets whizzing past your face, the puff of shots missing you by a centimeter or two. But you don't feel the impact of a bullet catching your helmet and knocking you backwards, the terror when you think you're dead. You don't know what the meaning of blood _is_ before you see it spattered on the ground. You don't realize it's life itself until that moment in time. And when you do, everything comes to you in an instant. And then you get angry."

Mercifully, Miss Kumar said nothing. The silence was...not awful. He calmed, opened his eyes to find Miss Kumar smiling very gently at him. He couldn't see behind her, but it felt as if people were respectfully waiting for him to continue his story. He distracted himself with her black nylon clad knees, peeping out from under her black skirt, and the fuck-me-ness of her shiny black heels. 

"Tell me about John Watson. What did you think, when you first met him?"

Hennessy couldn't help but chuckle. "Doc? Oh, he was a cocky little shit. I wanted to deck him right off. For god's sake, have you seen him walk? That fucking strut like he's got a third fucking leg. Maybe it's because he tried for selection, but had to take medical leave. Coming to Afghanistan must have seemed like old hat to him."

A moment later he remembered who he was speaking to, and toned his language down a bit. "Listen to this. My platoon was sent on a mission to join the Americans at a joint operation in Kunar province. COP Drake-Vasquez was at the head of a valley, surrounded on two sides by mountains north and south. There's a village to the east, and the road, if you want to call it that, runs through the village to the west. Drake-Vasquez was nothing but this overlooked, rocky little outcrop. It got a lot of sniper fire from the north, though the south liked to join in time to time."

"What's a COP?" asked Miss Kumar, making notes on the clipboard. 

"COP stands for Combat Outpost. Named after Drake and Vasquez, two Americans who were killed there in the oughts."

"So it was small?"

"Yeah, you could say." 

"Sounds like it was a hard time."

Hennessy snorted. "Ah, well, y'know. Put a bunch of blokes in close quarters with nothing much to do. If you've ever been on a submarine, that's what it's like. Close quarters, six or eight men sleeping on bunks stacked tall, latrines and showers out in the open so you'd best fucking wait until night to take a wee or have a wank. Rat tunnels to walk through otherwise. "

"Were you shot at often?"

He shrugged. "Daily. You got used to it. It breaks up the monotony."

"Did you make a lot of friends in the platoon?" 

"Friends isn't the right word," he finally said. "It's like having a child. When they're born, for the first few days what you feel is so far beyond love you can't explain it. The word doesn't exist, what I feel for those boys. Coming back...sometimes I wish I could have stayed there with them forever."

"Do you have any children?"

For a second he was speechless. "Ellie. A daughter. She's four."

She didn't ask how long it had been since he'd seen her, and he didn't offer to tell her. "Anyway, Watson was seconded to our unit after Forrester, our medic, got hit by a grenade."

Miss Kumar grimaced.

"Oh, it didn't go off," said Hennessy. "He was literally hit by a grenade one of the insurgents had fired from the south. The grenade ricocheted off the wall and straight into Forry, broke half his ribs, cracked his sternum. He was a right mess. Watson arrived forty minutes later by bird, fixed Forry up for a ride to Bastion, came back and announced he's staying for the duration," Hennessy shook his head in admiration. "Things were quiet for a little while after that, just the usual shit."

"What was Watson like?"

"Brilliant," Hennessy answered, smiling wistfully. "He was a gambler, y'know? Nothing serious, no money was involved, mostly. Favours, MREs, latrine duty, that sort of thing. Come a battle and he could fix you up, then take up your gun and fucking bring it to the enemy. I don't know how you do that, be a doctor and a soldier, but if they make a model, Watson broke it."

"He sounds like a fun man to have around."

"You don't even know the half of it. Watson's the kind of bloke who's a laugh any time, but gets down to business without a break. All that and a crack shot and a brilliant medic."

"So what changed?"

"It was a Thursday, ordinary day. Dietrich and Khan are in the lookout, and Groban's gone up to relieve Khan. We'd just finished lunch when the insurgents launched a grenade from the northern ridge. Although they're pretty good fighters, they get proper training and all, grenades and heavier munitions are expensive, so they don't always have a lot on hand."

Miss Kumar nodded. "Hence the IEDs."

"Right. They take use oil jugs, casings from missiles, hell, I've even seen old grenade shells used for IEDs. That day, though, whoever shot that grenade got the range almost right."

Hennessy cleared his throat. "The thing is, when a grenade goes off, there's a pressure wave. If you're close enough, you'll be lifted off your feet, just like in the movies. You'll get cut by shrapnel, or worse. Below the lookout tower on top of the COP, everything shook. Dust drifted down from the ceiling, poured down, actually, like when Indiana Jones is in the temple, in the first movie, yeah? Grabbed my L85A2 rifle and headed out and up."

"Anyway," He coughed into his fist. "Khan and Dietrich are dead, but Groban's still breathing. Seems like the grenade exploded either after bouncing on top of the hesko wall, or in midair. In any case, Groban was below the top of the hesko, which gave him some sort of protection. Doc's already up there like a monkey. He's working on Groban by the time I reach the top of the ladder, and I can hear grenades coming under the machine gun fire from the ridge. I start using our own machine gun."

"The gun jammed. We had an old SO8, which uses gas as the firing mechanism. Too many moving parts for the desert. A bit of sand gets in there and the whole thing gets gummed up, fires slow in cold weather, doesn't like being wet," he shrugged. "Shite piece of weaponry, but all we had at that moment. I'm taking single shots until Hodge gets up there with the new Minimi machine gun. He'd taken it below to get the grit out, give a thorough clean and all that. Meanwhile Doc's working on Groban and all of a sudden all I can hear the whine of bullets going past my ear. They sound like mosquitos or other flying bugs, that really high pitched whine, y'know?" Hennessey could practically feel the the bullets passing as he spoke, hear the thuds as they hit the sandbags, the ticks of metal being struck, the sparks of the same. "I shoot back until the insurgents stop shooting at me. Eventually they stop altogether, don't know if I hit one or both or if they just ran out of ammo, but when I turn around it's to find Watson on the floor of the tower. He'd been shot in the shoulder and there was a wound on his leg, too."

Flannary pops up the ladder and grabs Doc's shoulders and I take his feet. We managed to get him down and he's awake during the whole thing," Hennessy shook his head. There had been so much blood, _so much_ blood. Most of it wasn't Watson's. But he couldn't say that to Miss Kumar. Let the civilians have their ideas of clean death, instead of the slippery mess that resulted.

"Watson's on the ground and he's staring at me, eyes wide like he can't quite believe what's happened to him.

"Thing is, I'm the back up medic," Hennessey said. "I took a three day course, but at the end of the day, I'm just a soldier. Doc's supposed to be the one fixing people up, I'm supposed to shoot, that's how it's supposed to be. But now he's the one who's hurt, and it's up to me to get him safe. Grambs gets me the bag and I'm rifling through it, I find some scissors and have Grambs cut off Doc's shirt, then we roll Doc onto his side for a blood check. There's an exit wound with blood coming out, so I slapped a chest seal on his back to try and prevent a collapsed lung - " Hennessy stopped at Miss Kumar held up one hand, shaking her head. Alright, probably too much detail. 

"The insurgents have started shooting again, but there's no way we can get Watson mobile. Normally we take the wounded into the town for collection, but I didn't know if Watson's spine had been compromised or not and I couldn't take the chance of hauling down the side of the COP. I mean, the trail's not one you want to take when you're carrying someone on a stretcher, never mind being under fire. Flannery goes up top with Hodge while I call for a medevac. I asked for a bomb drop, but they refused. Hodge and Flannery lay down enough suppressing fire for the helicopter to hover on the southwestern side of the COP. It's not particularly flat there, the heli can't get both skids down, so it's a touch and go situation. Grambs and I manage to get Watson out there despite the lack of pain medication."

"How do you mean?"

Hennessy shook his head in admiration. "Like I said, I was the backup medic and Doc is Doc. I'd given him one amp of morphine, asked him if he wanted another and he refused. Said he needed a clear head in case any one else got into trouble before anything else happened to him. Besides, he's telling me all the things I need to be doing to him," Hennessy smiled at the memory. "They broke the mold, they really did."

"And after? What happened then?"

"We got back to work. I'm not a religious man, but I am a moral one. We were angry, and shocked, and in war the best cure for anger is to go and hunt and kill the people who have killed your friends. It's an acceptable method of grief."

"I see. Thank you, Mr. Hennessy," Miss Kumar said faintly. 

He stared at the floor, willing the remembered feelings of the time rush to his throat.

"We'll take a break now. Feel free to pop outside, if you need to."

 

~*~ Four Months Later ~*~

 

Some poncey git had put on Newsnight Review instead of the football highlights, much to the chagrin of half the people in the room. The ponce in question sat next to Hennessy and slid the bag of cheese and onion crisps over.

"It's supposed to be on tonight," Jack ripped open his own bag and shoved some crisps into his gaping maw.

Hennessy grunted in response. Dammit all, he should be grateful Jack was letting him stay over for a few days until his new digs were ready. Hell of thing, finding a bedsit, only to pay outrageous prices for a shithole being repainted. Orders from the council, the landlord said, not even caring that Hennessy had seen through the lie. Beggars couldn't be choosers, though, and Jack really was nice enough to give him the couch. Chance meeting, but it meant he was under Jack's heavy thumb when it came to the well-stroked tv remote.

"Chrissy's going to be on tonight, maybe tomorrow. Been waiting all week for this one, let me tell you. His last book was un-fucking-believable! Our own Andy McNab, except not a nonce," crowed Jack, actually stomping his foot with pleasure. 

"Yeah," said Hennessy, motioning towards the tv with his bottle and talking over the opening credits. "I read _Soldier's Away_ last year, wasn't too bad."

"Right? I'm gonna have a go at it some day, see if I can get myself a fancy book deal and all."

With a less than enthusiastic nod, Hennessy resolutely stared at the tv, as if he were really interested in who Kirsty Wark was interviewing. The bedsit was perfect, if ugly. Of course, he didn't intend on staying there for very long. He had two interviews tomorrow, one at St. Bartholomew's and the other at Texstyle World Home. With any luck St. Barts would be the one. A good place to start, anyway, get some work experience before deciding what department he wanted to get into. He rather fancied being in the Ambulance Service. Rapid Response, that was the ticket. No doubt one of his mates would have a suitable motorbike for sale, yeah.

 _"Tonight, a review of Michael Winterbottom's latest film **Chipset** , which he calls a cyber security and high tea comedy._" 

Getting a retail job would be shite, obviously. He could go the bouncer route…nah. All those late nights didn't appeal.

_" - talking to Catriona Mosley about her new book, **The Tide Runneth Over** \- "_

_"- rector of **Or On It** which was nominated for an Emmy, the Oscar, and the Caesar in the best documentary category, and has played at many film festivals around the world, including Sundance and the Toronto film festival."_

It didn't bear thinking about, what he was going to do if he didn't get either job. No, he wasn't going to give up hope, soldiers fought on.

_"Tonight's guests include Mark Kermode, Tom Paulin, and Germaine Greer. Ekow Eshun will - "_

He wasn't going to end up like those poor homeless sods, fuck no. Life under a bridge held no fucking appeal at all, his PTSD could go fuck itself before he let that happen. Yeah, a bedsit wasn't great, but it was dry and warm and he could put food in his mouth that hadn't fallen off the back of a truck.

"God, listen to these poncey fuckers," muttered Jack.

Hennessy managed not to roll his eyes. Jack _was_ one of those poncey fuckers, for all that he liked to pretend he wasn't. A public school boy of the mediocre kind, neither too bright nor too bad to call the attention of anyone who mattered. Switzerland or Monaco for the winter holidays, short jaunts to Dubai or Sharm el Sheik or Shaggalouf, South Asia for his gap year, no doubt prancing about Thailand wearing shorts and a black and white kheffiyah, leather bracelets around his wrists.

"Look at the lips on her," said Jack, glancing at Hennessy for confirmation of his opinion.

Dutifully focusing on the tv, Hennessy blinked in surprise. The clip being shown was of a crowd of well dressed people milling behind a very pretty, very familiar Asian woman. Her lipstick was dark red and her teeth white as she grinned at the camera. Her hair was tied away from her face, and her truly lovely shoulders were nearly bare, with only spaghetti straps holding up her black dress. He missed what the interviewer asked, but the woman looked to one side, then reached out and pulled a man next to her. The man turned and smiled at the camera, gave a little wave. 

"What the shit?" said Hennessy, unable to believe his own eyes. 

"Jesus fuck, isn't that Doc Watson?" asked Jack, looking over at Hennessy with a frown. "I thought he was dead."

He hadn't told anyone. That was the thing, Hennessy hadn't told anyone what he'd done. He hadn't asked for permission, hadn't bounced the idea off of any of his Army mates, of which there were none, as he had kind of lost his way when he'd come back home, and after all this time wasn't really sure it was a good idea. Yet...somehow he hadn't made the connection that this documentary would actually be seen, never mind lauded.

"I can't believe it!" Jack crowed. "Just look at him! Christ, he can still pull li-"

"Shut up," growled Hennessy, reaching over Jack to grab the remote and turn up the volume.

 _" - BAFTA is a staggering achievement for your first documentary,"_ the interviewer said. _"How does it feel?"_

 _"It's amazing! I never imagined myself amongst all these people,"_ Miss Kumar waved her arm at the people behind her, one of whom, a balding gentleman in a formal black suit and tie, approached to give her a kiss on the cheek. Miss Kumar's smile became even brighter, although Watson looked a bit dark.

The man turned to the camera, leaned forward to speak into the microphone. _"Honey Kumar's one to watch,"_ he said, his flat American accent jarring to hear. _"Go see **Or On It** , buy a copy and give it to your friends, it's a terribly important story and you won't regret it, especially if you know anyone in the services."_

As the man waved goodbye and headed back into the crowd, the interviewer, some older blonde woman Hennessy sort of recognized, spoke directly to the audience. _"That was Errol Morris, director of **The Thin Blue Line** , which exonerated a convicted killer, and 2012's BAFTA winning **The Act of Killing**. Miss Kumar, how did you come into the subject of war? How were you able to keep your sanity amongst such tales of killing and mayhem?"_

Miss Kumar instantly grew serious. _"It's so easy to forget that many soldiers need support when they come home, of all kinds. Just because someone seems alright on the surface, that doesn't mean they're really okay. More British servicemen and women commit suicide once they're home than actually die in war. That's a terrible thing and something we must change!"_

 _"Absolutely, absolutely,"_ said the interviewer. _"What's next on your agenda?"_

 _"Oh, I also just have to say that sanity is probably not the best word to use,"_ Miss Kumar flashed a look at Watson, who was doing that smile thing he did, where it was really obvious he disapproved, and a person better not fuck up like that again. The interviewer noticed and promptly held the microphone in front of Watson, who grimaced.

 _"Is sanity over-rated?"_ she asked.

 _"It's the wrong question,"_ Watson answered. He looked toward the camera and spoke solemnly. _"If you're in trouble, don't hesitate to seek help. If you're concerned about someone, talk to them about it, and if that gets you nowhere, speak to their commanding officer or one of their mates. Don't sit in silence."_

It seemed to Hennessy that Watson was looking directly at him when he spoke, and he felt a frisson of fear - or maybe it was excitement - at the thought. Hennessy hadn't lied to Miss Kumar, Watson had been a cocky little shit, but the flip side was that he cared quite deeply for his Army brothers. If Hennessy hadn't seen it for himself, he wouldn't have believed it. Watson put his life on the line like Hennessy had never seen, and that was saying something. Sure, he was nonchalant about it afterward, but Hennessy had seen the shaking hands, the anger that erupted when he'd Had Enough, his almost pathological bedding of women. Speaking of which -

 _"You sound as if you have first hand experience,"_ said the interviewer.

 _"My dad had a career in the Army until a bullet cut it short,"_ Miss Kumar tucked her arm under Watson's, pulling him close. _"Then he met my other dad and his whole world changed."_

"What the fuck?" exclaimed Jack. "Fuck me, it's not enough he has to fuck all the women in the world, he's got to fuck the men, too? Give a bloke a chance, Jesus."

_"My uncle was in the Falkland War and when I saw this documentary, I felt like I finally understood why he was so sad when he came home. I only wish I'd been able to talk to him abut it before he died."_

Miss Kumar nodded, her expression serious. _"It's incredibly difficult, because you want to help, and you just don't know where to start. In addition, so many soldiers are incredibly stoic and don't want to disturb family or friends with the details of what they've done. But it's good to talk, they need to talk, and if it's not to a family member, it should be to other soldiers or they should speak to their GP."_

The interviewer smiled. _"Absolutely. We're running out of time, but I have to say it's so exciting to see fresh British talent on the world stage, and with such an amazing documentary. Do you know what your next film is going to be about?"_

Without missing a beat, Miss Kumar said, _"We're currently editing a new documentary about youth culture among out Omegas, and then I'll be taking time off to rest and recuperate."_

_"That sounds like a good idea! Is there anything else you'd like to add?"_

_"I'd like to thank all of the interviewees who gave their time and their hearts to this film, and to the families of those who lost the final battle. Without your stories we could not save the lives of others. Finally, I need to thank my own family for putting up with me being out of the house all hours of the day and night, especially my husband Omar, and my son Zephyr. I also couldn't have done this without Evander and Colin and my dads. Without their support this film would not exist today."_

The camera closed on the interviewer again, and Hennessy lost interest. Unbelievable. He shook his head. Who even knew Watson had had a kid? She had said both her dads, so the other dad wasn't her mother. Hunh. Watson hadn't seemed the type to go for a bloke, but war did funny things to a man. Look at himself, for instance. Once upon a time he'd hit every whorehouse and bar in every country he'd gone to, now the very idea of sex made him ill. He couldn't even get it up for himself, and what was worse, didn't care if he ever did so again. From time to time he thought maybe he should do something about that, but the effort seemed too much, and honestly, it was embarrassing.

Jack pointed at the tv. "Look, there's Chrissy. I wonder if he's going to talk about Moran at all? He kind of hinted at it at the end of the last book, that biography."

"Haven't read it yet," murmured Hennessy, thinking he should contact Melanie and see if he could take Ellie to the park, or something. Didn't have to be a big deal or anything. He'd be happy with lunch at Sainsbury's cafe, in all honesty.

Jack turned and stared at him, frowning. "You know about Moran, right?"

"Yeah, of course I do. Heard it all from the horse's mouth, didn't I."

Mollified, Jack turned his attention back to the tv. "Good, good. Bastard."

Yeah, he'd call Melanie in the morning, after Ellie went to nursery. Hmm, no, best do it after his interviews. He'd be in a better mood, hopefully, and she wouldn't yell at him if Ellie was in the house. That's what he would do, because Doc Watson was alive and had a beautiful daughter and maybe he, Stephen Hennessy, could have the same, too.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this story for the past few months, as I've been wanting to write something about John's battle experience. I'm not there, yet. I watched a lot of documentaries in order to write this. Most of them American, as I needed specific insight into how the soldier felt on the ground. You will undoubtedly find more American slang in here than I'd like, but I only have so much time as I'm still heavily researching my other WIP.
> 
> There are some good Canadian and British docs, too, but they were more sanitized for the viewing audience. And of course, there are plenty of un-edited war films, too. They are far less circumspect in showing people being blown up and shot and the general gore of war. So, y'know, what I'm saying is that if the subject interests you, stick to the commercially made docs, which are more along the lines of what you'd see watching 24 Hours in A&E or other emergency room reality shows. Or, for that matter, what you'd see watching the First 48.
> 
> Here are my top picks, in order of preference (all available on youtube):
> 
> [This is What Winning Looks Like](https://youtu.be/Ja5Q75hf6QI) \- outstanding documentary by Vice. DO NOT READ THE COMMENTS. They're racist, sexist, and vile, with a few exceptions. Consider yourself warned. But definitely watch, it consolidated thoughts I'd had about the war for some years.
> 
> [The Fighting Season](https://youtu.be/zGHeCGsGHXw) \- Trailer. produced by Ricky Schroeder (yes! _that_ Ricky Schroeder!) Fabulous doc about when the fighting picks up.
> 
> [Royal Marines: Mission Afghanistan](https://youtu.be/xJmJV2-OiYA) \- bad trailer, but yanno.
> 
> [Bluestone 42](https://youtu.be/fQZTIDOOz48) \- Trailer. BBC3 comedy and fucking hilarious. For real, you will guffaw. A lot.
> 
> [Taking Fire](https://youtu.be/DBUiU4ceF6Y) \- Trailer. Discovery series, helmet cams. Really good.
> 
> [Inside Combat Rescue](https://youtu.be/heyeQkyLPp8) \- Trailer. it's fairly glam with the music and all, but interesting.
> 
> The title comes from what Spartan mothers said to their sons as they went off to battle: "Come home with your shield, or on it". TL;dr - Victory or death.
> 
> If you are a veteran, or know someone who's a veteran and would like to talk to someone, here's some help:
> 
> USA: [Veterans Crisis Line](https://www.veteranscrisisline.net/)  
> call: 1-800-273-8255  
> txt: 838255  
> [Deaf/Hard of Hearing/TTY](https://www.veteranscrisisline.net/GetHelp/Accessibility.aspx)
> 
> CANADA: [VAC Assistance](http://www.veterans.gc.ca/eng/contact/vac-assistance-service)  
> call: 1-800-268-7708  
> TDD: 1-800-567-5803
> 
> UK:  
> [Combat Stress](http://www.combatstress.org.uk/) \- call - 0800 138 1619 sms: 07537 404 719  
> [Samaritans](http://www.samaritans.org/) call 116-123 (UK/ROI)
> 
> The Canadian website also lists phone numbers if you live in Belgium or France, though I'm not sure they'll work outside of Canada?
> 
>  
> 
> [Kirsty Wark interviews Donna Tartt](https://youtu.be/AiL1dIXAQKo) \- Kirsty's interview style.
> 
> [God Save the Queen](https://youtu.be/WwsQ_5Wm4oo) \- She can be very snarky.
> 
> [Chris Ryan on snipers](https://youtu.be/rx9AqA0K4Rk) \- this is the 'Chrissy' Jack is waiting for. Chris is, of course, one of the surviving members of Bravo Two Zero, along with Andy McNab. There are a few videos on the subject on yt, including one where the host goes to find out 'the real truth' behind the story. Watch that one second!


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